Birthright
by RaspberryBeret
Summary: From starving stranger to unrivaled warrior, Averil of Fairlea shrouds herself in mystery as she begins a serendipitous journey with Thorin Oakenshield & Co. As she reveals her heartache, she opens herself up to friendship, love, and her true destiny.
1. Birthright

_Feb. 14/14 - FINAL NOTE: The more I fleshed this story out and added chapters, the more I loved Averil, and the less I liked her introduction to be mostly about sex (even though this admittedly started out as a smutty one-shot). So I've toned it way down, but I still hope you get a feel for her desire for Thorin before moving on to chapter 2. _

"You must keep pace!"

Thorin was shouting at the company again, but Averil knew it was really directed at her. She was the slowest one there, that was for sure. It was not because she had refused to continue riding with Bofur when she finally felt well enough to walk. It was not even due to fatigue, despite the long journey across the treacherous and unpredictable terrain.

Her steps were calculated and steady, each one striving to be a more perfect imprint on the land than the previous. It was her way.

The band of dwarves and one hobbit, led by their imposing and at times irascible King Thorin, had found her three weeks ago, collapsed and parched near the opening of a cave, which she'd had neither the strength nor the will to enter for shelter. Rolled up beside her limp body were the only possessions she'd taken from her former home: a tent, two blankets, a goblet, a change of clothes, a knife.

Despite his initial objections about bringing her along (_"This woman is the last distraction we need!"_) Thorin had acquiesced to Bilbo and Bofur's pleas not to leave her there. They argued that she was vulnerable not only to the elements, but Orcs, wargs and other repulsive creatures that would have no problem devouring her small, delicate frame within seconds. They assured Thorin that as soon as they came to an inhabited area with abundant shelter and food, they would unload their burden.

Averil looked up. Ahead was a forest bathed in thick shade that beckoned the company to stop for the evening. Thorin was the first to dismount, his heavy feet pounding the ground with authority. She watched him closely, all the time. Averil was almost certain that he grabbed looks at her, too, though he would probably rather spear himself with his own sword than admit it. He was definitely more likely to yell at her for being a burden than to take the time to get to know her.

But his rough and sometimes biting words did not scare or bother Averil, for she knew good leaders had to be blunt and immovable at times. That's how her father had once been, and Thorin had these same traits, always.

She also felt a connection to this dwarf, though their dealings with each other had been few. Of all the people in the company, Thorin was the person with whom she had the most and the least in common.

A fierce and fiery dragon had forced Thorin and his kin to flee their beloved Erebor. Her homelessness and subsequent solitude were not due to outside forces, but her own father, King Daimereth, who'd let the excesses of wine and women console him after the sudden death of his Queen. He let his grief cloud his judgment and reign. He had become reckless, foolish. The subjects of his small kingdom of Fairlea suffered while he indulged in every food and delight, a sad effort to mask his pain. Branon, his wisest adviser, had no more influence on him - his counsel at first mocked, then ignored completely. Averil, trying to heal after losing her mother, ached for the return of her father's attention and love. But he could not provide it.

Finally, in the wee hours of her 21st birthday, Hevyk, the head of the army and someone she once considered a confidante, staged a bloody coup d'etat. Daimereth was not spared, and Averil figured she was surely slated for the same fate. She managed to narrowly escape, taking advantage of the long-unused underground service tunnels to save her life.

For weeks she had wandered, cloaked in shock and grief, but careful to cover her tracks as she heard the wail of hounds picking up on her scent. She found water to dead-end her trail, climbed up and down trees, rolled about in stolen clothes, then tossed them in various directions, to help elude the dogs.

Keeping her head low, she stole food from market vendors and unattended homes and gardens. Since most of the subjects were poor, she never gathered much. And at the end of one particularly difficult week, the company found her. She had drifted nearly 40 miles from Fairlea.

Now, as the group bustled about starting a fire, preparing to hunt for food and setting up camp, she eyed a clearing away from the activity that seemed to be made for her tent. She headed toward it with purpose.

The durable, rugged canvas structure had been an heirloom from her father. He had once been loving and caring, an experienced soldier who, in addition to educating her on royal duties, taught her basic survival skills that he felt every person should know. The tent, which had been his and his father's before him, was part of the lesson, as was building a fire and most importantly, defending herself. She did all well.

After effortlessly erecting the tent, she sat inside on her blanket, legs folded, eyes closed. The din of the company, laughing, talking, and singing, was oddly comforting. Several of the dwarves had stashed ale, and eagerly shared and slurped it in their sturdy cups. Kili hunted a few rabbits, and the smell of the sweet meat cooking over the flames wafted into her tent. Though she told herself she was not hungry, she inhaled the scent deeply, trying to feel satisfied by it alone.

No one would dare bother her, she thought. She was never unkind to the company, and they were certainly never rude to her, but she put up an invisible shield that let them know she didn't want to be questioned or befriended. With the exception of her rescue, she always made the first move if she needed anything.

She sat, then lay, for what must have been hours in her tent, listening as they spun their tales, ate their supper and relived their glories. She wanted to join them - and yet she wanted to be alone. She wanted to share her own shameful, painful secret - and yet she wanted to keep it hidden. It was no wonder her nickname, _Ele-rahv_, in her native tongue basically meant, "this way and that." Her father had unofficially christened her with the name as he watched her fly from activity to activity as a child, never for more than a few minutes at a time. She couldn't stand to miss out on anything. With this same attitude she looked forward to being involved in every diverse aspect of her reign. She would have been a dedicated ruler.

But it was not to be.

She covered herself with her remaining blanket, and let her memories drifted into dreams. Night fell slowly and silently, enveloping the forest in a sheet of black, topped with diamond stars. The noise around the fire died down as most of the company fell asleep.

Suddenly, her slumber was interrupted by a deep voice.

"Are you hungry?"

Her eyes flew open. It was Thorin, crouched at the tent's opening. He was holding a small plate, his own, with a few pieces of smoky, sinewy meat on it.

She sat up, startled. A flood of emotions rushed over her when she realized the king really was before her: anger for his intrusion, appreciation for the food, arousal by his majesty, embarrassment by her appearance.

She could not deny her hunger. She nodded eagerly and reached for the plate, thinking it would hand it to her and go. But instead, he slipped into the tent and placed it by her side.

He sat with his legs crossed beside her as she ate, quite unladylike. She minded, but did not say so.

"You should have joined us," he said as she finished the last of the meal. You should know by now that we are not going to hurt you. You shouldn't be afraid."

"I am not afraid of you, my lord," she answered truthfully, defiantly. Then – still annoyed that he had stayed without an invitation - she decided to lie. "But I don't want to join you."

He folded his arms and studied her face, his blue eyes like cold steel. "Then," he said, leaning in, his voice becoming a deep whisper, "what _do_ you want, Princess Averil?"

She choked on the last bit of meat, struggling to recover in order to regain her composure. Her light brown eyes met his, and she saw the slightest smirk on his face.

"What did you call me?" she asked, knowing full well he'd said –

"Princess."

There was a long, heavy pause. Finally, she asked, "How - did you….?"

He reached toward her face, and she instinctively backed away ever so slightly. His right hand touched just behind her left ear and trailed down to the top of her neck, outlining the slightly curved, amber-hued mark which had been painstakingly tattooed on her delicate olive skin when she turned 13. It was an honorable distinction given only to the royal family, and had been for centuries. But it was now just a relic from an overthrown kingdom.

She, too, reached past her shoulder-length black hair to caress the tattoo. She was unaware that Thorin knew anything about her tiny homeland. Obviously none of the other dwarves took note of it, nor the hobbit, Bilbo. Surely big-mouth Bofur, who had actually become a trusted traveling companion and friend, never mentioned it. So she'd reasoned that if he didn't say anything, no one in the company knew.

Or so she thought.

Her fingers found the mark - and Thorin's sandpaper hands. Instead of moving away, he cupped the side of her face.

"What do you want, princess?" he asked again. His eyes burned through hers.

She sat up on her thin pallet of a blanket, her gaze never leaving his. She searched her heart, and like a dart finding a target, she knew exactly what her truest desire at that moment was. She wanted the one thing she had never had the chance to do. It was her birthright. It was the reason she sought to make even her steps on the earth perfect, regal, precise.

"I want," she said slowly, "to rule."

And then, looking at him, she wanted something else.

She grabbed Thorin's shoulders and pulled him toward her, bringing his mouth to hers. He tasted of meat and ale and smelled of earth and sweat. She stripped him of his heavy garments, not quite understanding this power and knowledge that had overcome her.

When he was completely unclothed, she looked over his battle-worn body. He was still magnificent in every way. She quickly removed the dirty, torn covering shielding her body, a formerly beautiful dress that had been reduced to a few yards of cloth. Once it was off, she gently pushed him to lay down on her pallet.

Throughout the night, there was a sweet intermingling of passion, dominance, submission, and desire – not just for the physical, but for something far beyond each of their grasp, something they both had lost, and both longed for.

Home.


	2. Secrets and Blood

Morning rushed into Averil's tent with one purpose: to wake her up. A cool, aggressive breeze pushed through the opening and danced around her head and shoulders, pressing her thin fabric against her skin.

Wait a minute, she thought: _Fabric._

Averil opened her eyes and let them adjust to the early light setting the tent aglow. Slowly, she ran her hands across her chest and legs.

She wasn't naked.

She looked around her small haven, eyes still squinting, grasping for any signs of the previous night.

No plate.

No lover.

She sat straight up straight and tall, like a sail against gust. She crossed her legs in front of her and forced her breathing to decelerate as the truth seeped into her veins.

Thorin had not visited her. She had not revealed anything to him. She had not given herself to him.

Averil felt the blood rush to her face, and closed her eyes tight.

It was a dream.

A vivid…delicious…crazy…wrong…dream. Totally unbecoming of a princess, regardless of her current circumstances.

But she didn't have time to beat herself up any more over it. Outside, the noise from the company went from the regular goading, singing and gathering of supplies to shouts and mad rushing across the camp. Through the confusion, one word was repeated: "Orcs!"

She'd had no direct experience with these monsters, but their destruction was well-known. In the sparring lessons with her father, his role of choice was an Orc. He used to tell her that if she could defeat that filth, she could conquer any foe.

As Averil reached for her blade, the tent flap ripped open. Bofur.

"Miss, we've got to -"

"I know." She tightened her grip on the knife and headed with him outside.

It was bedlam, but Averil processed the scene as rapidly as she could.

Five...ten….fifteen…twenty-five, twenty-seven orcs.

Two…eight….ten….thirteen on wargs.

Not easy, not easy in the least. But...not impossible.

Next she saw: Thirteen dwarves running about, attacking their attackers with their weapons of choice: axes, slingshots, arrows, blades. From the corner of her eye, she saw the hobbit, Bilbo, heading deeper into the woods, his sword extended, its blue glow reflecting on his frightened face. He wasn't fighting anyone at that moment, but he looked bewildered and worn, as if he'd narrowly escaped with his life.

At that moment her father's teachings flooded back to her. It was if he were right there - in his right mind again, determined to save her life.

_Breathe._

_Focus. _

_Take out the biggest threat first. _

_Do not hold anything back._

"Do you hear me, Averil?" he would say when she became distracted. "Hold nothing back!"

With that, Averil charged from the tent and went after the Orc on the largest warg. Neither saw her coming. She uttered a guttural scream just before plunging her blade across the beast's left eye, then dragging it ferociously across the bridge of its nose and into the right eye. Blinded – and therefore more dangerous - it crashed to the ground, its savage teeth wildly grasping for Averil's legs, and its rider briefly disoriented.

Averil moved swiftly away from the warg's mouth, and onto the crippled beast itself, where she slid the knife across the Orc's throat before he could get his bearings. Blood splashed across her face and neck. She then did the same to the warg, but repeatedly, slicing through its rough hide until the life drained from it.

She felt a presence behind her, and spun around to see another Orc running toward her, a spiked club in his hand. She instinctively kicked the club with all her might, with her bare foot, before sticking the blade deep into the Orc's chest. Her hands were slippery with foul blood, but she was still able to hold onto the blade with all her might.

The next kills happened in the same fashion: quickly, mercilessly. With every throat she slit, neck she broke, temple she pierced or belly she gutted, she felt more vindicated for everything that had happened to her. A temporary but deep sense of release washed over her – release from the pain and reality of her mother's death, father's breakdown, Hevyk's betrayal, the coup, her escape. She was a free, wild, warrior that not even the most horrendous creatures could defeat.

She was basking in this feeling when it dawned on her that all was now quiet. Only the dwarves' heaving made a sound. She looked around: all the Orcs were dead or dying; to her great relief, none of the company was.

In fact, they were all staring at her, mouths and eyes wide open. Just...staring. They had been watching her, marveling at her skills and viciousness. Ten Orcs and four wargs were within a few yards of her, all victims of her blade and fury.

Before she could react, a hand grasped her neck and pushed her hard, knocking her against a tree.

"Who are you?!" Thorin demanded.

Averil opened her mouth, but couldn't speak. His right hand was too tight against her throat.

"Leave her be!" Bofur said.

Thorin ignored him and tightened his grip. "Answer me! Who are you?"

Averil began to feel pressure against her eyes. She was getting increasingly lightheaded. With the last ounce of will she had, she raised her knife and nicked Thorin's hand. The sting had the effect she needed: he released his hold on her and she fell to the ground, coughing hard. Bofur and Bilbo ran to her side.

Thorin quickly sucked the blood from the fresh cut, spit it out, then turned to the rest of the company and pointed to Averil.

"What exactly do we know of this stranger – this woman, who you all insisted we bring along? Nothing! Who's to say she won't slit all our throats in the middle of the night just as she's done here!"

As Bofur and Bilbo frantically fanned her, Averil felt the blood return to her face. She caught her breath and managed to speak.

"I would never harm you or your company," she said hoarsely.

Thorin glared at her. "'Why should I believe you?"

"She wouldn't!" Bilbo insisted.

"I wasn't asking you, Master Dwarf," Thorin snapped.

Averil realized she could no longer keep her secret. She took a deep breath, and opened the floodgates on her sad, humiliating tale. She told it without tears, without any quaver in her voice. She had already cried a million tears, and she just didn't have anything left.

"So you see, my Lord," she said at the end of her story, "I want the same thing as you. I want what's mine, what was stolen from me. But…I can't go back. You can. I wouldn't do anything to keep that from happening, because..." She searched for the words. "Because I understand."

Thorin stared at her for a long moment. She hung her head low, unable to meet his eyes. Everything in her life seemed so overwhelming. Last night's dream was still too vivid. The stench from the Orcs crawled up her nose and seemed to invade her brain. And now the weight of Thorin's stare seemed to press down on her soul.

She waited in vain for him to reprimand her.

"We're leaving," Thorin announced to the company. He pointed to Averil. "And _she _stays here."

There were immediate and loud protests from everyone, with Bofur and Bilbo speaking the loudest. Even Kili and Fili chimed in, offering reasons for her to stay _("Did you see what she did to these Orcs?" We need her!) _

It was of no use.

"She stays here, and that is the end of it," Thorin said.

Even though she was physically and emotionally drained, she helped her friends gather their belongings and prepare for the next part of their journey. She avoided Thorin at all costs – an easy thing to do, because he would not even come within two feet of her. He was too busy with Dwalin building a fire and tossing the Orc corpses into it. What she wouldn't have done to help. But she didn't dare.

When everyone was packed up and ready to go, Averil embraced her friends, not wanting to hang on too tightly, because it wouldn't do any good anyway.

"This isn't right," Bofur whispered during their embrace.

She loved that he cared about her, but she needed to reassure him that everything would be OK, to have him believe in his king again. Thorin would need every member of his company to fight Smaug and take back Erebor.

"He _is_ right to be cautious," she said. "He is looking out for the company. That, my friend, is being a good king."

There was a quiet moment between them. Then Bofur asked, "What will become of you, my lady?"

She managed a smile.

"Don't you worry," she said. "I will find my destiny."


	3. Destiny, Interrupted

Averil hoped it would never dawn on Bofur what she meant about finding her destiny.

She realized there weren't a lot of options for her. She had no home, no parents, no friends, no company, no quest. She had the ability to fight, and hold her own. But then what?

She could just imagine the criticism for the rest of her life - not that she disagreed with it: "_Princess Averil of Fairlea, selfishly fled her kingdom to save to her own skin while her people suffered under Hevyk the Tyrant!"_

It was an accurate assessment, one she'd played over and over in her mind. But she didn't want to hear it anymore, from herself or anyone else.

She just wanted peace. _That_ was her destiny.

After the company left, she hobbled over to her tent, her right foot still bleeding from kicking the spiked club. She tore off a strip of her blanket and haphazardly wrapped her foot, then gathered up her belongings and limped through the forest to distance herself from the corpse-fueled smoke.

She desperately needed water. Averil didn't want the last smell she ever breathed in to be Orc blood. It was disgusting beyond belief. No amount of feces, rotten meat or decomposed bodies – _combined_ – matched its wretched, stomach-churning stench. She refused to die covered in such filth.

After about thirty minutes, she came upon a tributary, with a bonus: a row of honeysuckle bushes nearby, giving off the scent of their sweet nectar. She had hoped to find lavender, but this was so much better. The smell was intoxicating.

Averil peeled off her blood-soaked clothes, unwrapped her foot, and ripped everything to shreds with her blade. She rolled them up into a bundle and buried them under a thick cover of leaves.

She placed her weapon on the river bank, grabbed a small rock, and boldly entered the lukewarm water. Her right foot stung as the unholy blood and grit on it made contact with the pure, clear liquid. She dunked her head underneath three times, then emerged, feeling refreshed. She ran her fingers through her tangles, carefully picking out every filthy foreign bit.

She began scrubbing vigorously with the rock, eventually shedding off the caked blood. Her skin was raw.

After leaving the water, she dried herself off with her blanket, then went over to the honeysuckle blossoms. She ripped away several bunches, and carefully opened up the petals. She smoothed them generously all over her skin, from head to toe. She took in the lovely aroma and for just a few moments, felt pampered.

Averil returned to the water and cleaned her knife so thoroughly, it glistened. She was pleased to see it restored to its former glory before she gave it the final duty.

She changed into her only remaining dress, re-erected her tent right next to the honeysuckle, and crawled inside. She lay the blanket on the ground and rested atop it, facing upward at the wrinkled, yellowed canvas.

It was time.

_Breathe._

"Mother," she whispered into the air. "I have missed you more than you know. I miss your grace, your strength, your love. And Father…." She felt a lump in her throat as only good memories came flooding back to her. "I've missed your wisdom, your protection. Everything you taught served me well today."

_Focus._

She clasped the blade handle tightly with both hands and pointed the steel at her heart. She would have to be precise.

_Take out the biggest threat first._

Fear twisted up from her soul like a vine. It had been so long since she felt it, she almost didn't recognize what it was. But fear had to be conquered, or she would maim herself, and she needed this to be quick. In her mind's eye, she grabbed her trepidation and and ripped it from its roots, feeling it wither and fall from her hands.

_Hold nothing back, Averil._

Just as she was about to plunge the knife into her chest, sunlight was suddenly pouring over her. The tent had been yanked away.

Averil squinted. A shadow loomed over her, partially eclipsing the early afternoon sun.

She shrieked like a little girl, dropped the knife, and sat up.

"What are you doing here?"

Thorin reached out his hand, the one she'd cut.

"Get up," he commanded.

Averil crawled backward on her hands, eyes wide, upper lip stiff. "No!" she said defiantly.

Thorin rolled his eyes and huffed. He wasn't going to tell her again. He bent down, scooped up her body and the blanket in his arms, and tossed her over his right shoulder. Averil screamed again and wriggled furiously.

"Off we go," he said, matter-of-factly.

She kicked her legs and beat on his back with her fists.

"Let go of me! Right now!"

"You prefer to walk? Very well." With that, Thorin dropped her. Just…dropped her. Right there on the ground, on her backside, with a thud.

"OUCH!" she screamed, rubbing her bottom. She glowered at him.

"You told me to release you."

"I did not mean DROP ME!" Averil hollered so loud her throat hurt. She stood up and crossed her arms, her eyes burned a hole in his face. But he wouldn't budge.

"We should be on our way," he said, starting to walk toward his pony.

Without thinking, Averil stomped her injured foot in protest, and immediately regretted it. She winced as pain shot from her heel to her calf, causing her to briefly lose her balance.

Thorin turned around. Seeing the wound, he crouched before her and carefully examined the damage.

Averil was angry at herself for feeling aroused at his touch. Just a few minutes ago, she was ready to die. Now, with his hands applying gentle pressure against her skin, she felt exhilarated. She tried to distract herself by turning her attention to Thorin's pony, tied to a nearby tree, patiently waiting for her master.

"The rest of the company is waiting for us, and for Gandalf, in a village not far from here," he said, pressing a finger around the puncture. "You can get proper care for the wound there. It's very deep. But until then, it needs to be bandaged."

He rose, and before she knew what was happening, he picked her up and carried her to a nearby boulder, resting her head and back against it.

Averil tried to relax. Thorin ripped off a long piece from the bottom of her blanket and with his seductive, rough hands, began to expertly wrap her foot.

His touch was driving her mad. She finally broke the silence between them.

"This village you mentioned. Is that where you cleaned yourself up?"

"I'd hardly call myself clean, but yes," he said. "Of course, I don't smell nearly as lovely as you."

Averil blushed, grateful more than ever for the honeysuckle. Then she asked the question that was really on her mind.

"Why did you come back?"

"Why were you about to end your life?" He finished wrapping her foot and waited for her response.

Averil swallowed. "There's nothing for me in this world."

He blew out a breath, annoyed. "You're feeling sorry for yourself."

"Pardon?" She raised her right eyebrow.

"You heard me."

"How dare you!" She pulled her foot away from him. "You left me here, Thorin! What do you care what happens to me or how I feel?"

He took a moment before speaking, but he didn't answer her questions.

"Bofur told me what you said about me." He looked at her intently. "You consider me a good king?"

_Bofur, that was for your ears, not Thorin's, _Averil thought.

"I would think you would be flattered," she said.

"A good king would not abandon his best warrior."

Averil smiled in spite of herself, and to her surprise, Thorin returned it. Not a big, toothy smile – more like a little smirk – but it moved her nonetheless.


	4. Reward

Thorin rode into the hamlet with Averil holding on tightly to his waist, her head on his shoulder.

The village square was alive with activity. Vendors sold fruits, breads and trinkets. Children in colorful garb ran after each other. Parents scolded them and juggled the wares in their hands. The vibrancy reminded her of Fairlea.

Thorin stopped in front of what appeared to be the largest structure in the square, an inn painted sky blue, and dismounted. He helped Averil down, reminding her not to put too much weight on her foot. He considered carrying her inside, but he sensed her pride, and refrained.

She stepped carefully and slowly up the stairs and over the threshold, Thorin leading the way. He asked the innkeeper about getting help for Averil's injury.

"It's your lucky day," the friendly, rotund woman with rosy cheeks said, turning to Averil. "I'm a midwife, but I've tended to many other things as well. Let's have a look."

The innkeeper, Maeve, set Averil up in a plain room with a single bed. The walls were the same color as the exterior of the inn, and the bedding a light gray. Averil lay on top of the blankets, relieved and thankful for even the slightest comfort.

Maeve went off to fetch the items she needed to create a salve, leaving her adult son Percival in charge at the front.

"Where is the company?" Averil asked.

"Camped in the woods just outside of the square." He pointed eastward. He went on to tell her the plans to set off in the morning, assuming she would be well enough to travel and that Gandalf would get there by nightfall. She felt her heart flutter, listening to him include her in the journey again.

Maeve came back carrying two small bowls – one with salt water, one with the thick salve – and several rags tucked under her arms. She set everything down on a wooden table at the foot of the bed and began to unwrap Averil's bandage.

Maeve turned to Thorin. "Did you wrap this?"

"I did."

Maeve nodded in approval. "Excellent work."

Thorin ignored the compliment and took a step toward the door.

"No," Averil shook her head. "Stay with me, Thorin."

Maeve looked at the dwarf, then the exhausted young lady, then back at the dwarf again, and smiled.

"You'd better do as your wife says," Maeve cackled.

Neither Averil nor Thorin corrected her.

Averil had assumed the healing process would be soothing. It was anything but.

Maeve first cleaned the wound properly with the warm salt water. Averil twisted and screamed so much that Thorin had to pin her to the bed, his great hands pressed against her forearms. As she dried the area and applied the salve, Maeve called her son in to bring Averil a bit of tonic. When that failed to quiet her, Maeve instructed him to bring her a small mug of mead.

Several minutes later, the foot was rewrapped and Averil was settling down. Mae suggested Thorin stroke her hair and speak soft, reassuring words to her in an effort to further calm her down. It was something husbands did when their wives were in labor, but it would certainly work here, too, she said.

Thorin grumbled that it wasn't his place to do such a thing. That's when Maeve figured out they weren't married after all, even though it was obvious they cared for one another.

"Oh, think nothing of it," Maeve said nonchalantly. "I need to get back to my work up front. I'll just ask my son to comfort the lady. "

Thorin pierced his eyes through her.

"My unmarried son," Maeve added.

No response, just more glaring.

"My handsome, unmarried son who would be honored to stroke the head of such a beautiful –"

Thorin cut her off by shouting something in a foreign tongue; probably a curse word, Maeve thought. Then he sat next to Averil and did as she asked. Maeve was pleased that she'd chipped through his stubbornness.

"You will be on your feet again in no time, slaying Orcs more viciously than ever," he said stiffly, gingerly running his fingers through her hair.

Maeve chuckled. "She'll be a better fighter? _Those a_re your sweet words, eh?"

"She's a warrior," Thorin snapped.

"And a woman!" Maeve retorted. "Speak tenderly."

"I am not known for my tenderness."

Maeve grunted. "Anyone who binds a foot that well has _some _tenderness in him. I'm sure of it."

A broad smile spread across Averil's face, a dazed look in her eye. She heard Thorin and Maeve bickering but she didn't really catch any of their words. Everything was pleasantly blurry. She knew it was real, because she remembered in detail the horrible salt water and salve treatment. But now she felt no pain. She reached her hand up and touched Thorin's beard.

"I dreamed of you…" she sang.

Thorin peered at her as if she were a stranger, then shot a look at Maeve.

"It's a heady combination she took," she told him, referring to the tonic and mead. "She'll sleep it off soon enough. I'll be back later to check on the foot."

Maeve gathered the bowls and used rags and left, shutting the door behind her.

Averil ran her hand along Thorin's neck. He was uncomfortable with her not realizing what she was doing.

"Rest," he said sternly. He moved her hand away.

"Didjoo hear me?" she slurred. "Dream."

"Yes, go dream, princess." His tone was a little less harsh this time. He patted her head.

"No, no, no, no no," she said. "Dream you me. Me you. Good dream." She giggled.

"Averil, _go to sleep._"

"Y'know what I was doooing…..?" she crooned.

Changing the subject was pointless, so Thorin took the bait. "What were you doing?"

"Sittin' on your face!" She threw her head back and laughed maniacally for several seconds. As her hooting died down, her eyelids grew heavy, and soon she was out.

Thorin was not the type of person to blush, and now was no exception. But he did feel his body heat rise at her confession, and how closely it mirrored his own devilish thoughts.

There was a knock at the door. Maeve poked her head in. She had something in her hand.

"Begging your pardon, but there are some folks in the square, appear to be looking for the young lady."

Thorin nodded, assuming it was Bilbo and Bofur. It occurred to him that he hadn't seen them since returning to the village with Averil, and needed to update them.

"Yes, they are with me," he said, getting up.

Maeve wrinkled her brow. "I saw who you came into town with this morning and these aren't them. And they are carrying these."

She handed Thorin a wrinkled sheet of paper. There was a sketch of the princess in the center, with the word "Reward" above it and "Averil of Fairlea" underneath.


	5. I Need to Look In His Eyes

Thorin paced inside the front room of the inn, stopped at the window overlooking the square, and then returned to his pacing. He repeated this sequence every two minutes.

"Stop worrying, love. My Percival will get the message to your mate. Be patient, it takes a moment to walk to your camp," Maeve said from her table at the front entrance, where she sat knitting. "Would you like some homemade stew? Might settle your nerves."

"No."

Thorin was at the window again. He caught a glimpse of the two men talking to villagers and showing their posters. A couple of people pointed here and there, not quite sure where they'd seen the woman in question go.

Thorin was grateful that there had been too much activity when they'd first arrived, so Averil wouldn't stand out quite so much. But he was far from at ease.

"Tell me what you told them," Thorin said.

Maeve sighed. After he'd briefed her Averil's past, Thorin had asked the same question three times.

"I said I didn't know any Averil of Fairlea. And I don't." She shrugged.

"Not exactly convincing," he grunted.

"Well, it's kept them away this long, hasn't it?" she said. "Besides, your denial isn't very convincing either. "

"Denial about what?" Thorin asked, his eye on the men, not really paying attention.

Maeve just rolled her eyes.

Thorin continued spying outside. _Why was it taking that dolt son of Maeve's so long to return with Bofur?_ he wondered. More than a half-hour had passed. He needed to plot how to smuggle Averil out of the village. If the people passing out "reward" posters were the ones who killed her father, surely they were planning the same fate for her, too.

It would be tricky. From what Thorin could tell, even with nothing much to go on about Averil's whereabouts, they seemed in no hurry to leave the village. They looked like harmless young soldiers, not ruthless murderers. Thorin watched them stroll down the square and out of sight, their horses still tied to posts. They would be back.

He finally saw Percival and Bofur approaching the inn on a pony. Thorin met them at the door, grabbing Bofur by the arm and practically dragging him across the room.

Thorin showed him the poster.

"Are you sure it's - what's his name again?" Bofur asked.

"Hevyk."

"Aye, are you sure it's him? Could be someone from her family looking for her," he said, trying to look on the hopeful side.

"If she had family, do you not think she would have fled to them first?" Thorin reasoned. "No, this is no kin. If they're offering a reward, they must be desperate to find her."

"Desperate to find who?"

Neither Bofur nor Thorin heard the guest room door open. Averil stood leaning against the door frame, bearing all her weight against it and on the uninjured foot. She looked groggy.

"Lass!" Bofur said, coming over to give her a hug. Averil was happy to see her friend.

"You're supposed to be sleeping," Thorin said.

Averil rubbed her eyes. "I was," she said, "but I smelled food. Wonderful food."

"That's me stew!" Maeve said proudly.

"Go back in there," Thorin ordered Averil.

She cocked her head. "Why?"

Thorin walked over and plastered the poster to her chest, then went back to the window. Averil read the paper, slowly taking in that it was her face sketched on it. One by one, things became clearer.

Thorin and Bofur saw revenge well up in her eyes.

She disappeared into the room for a second and returned with her knife. She charged toward the door, her steps uneven as she forced her bandaged foot to stomp.

"No you don't!" Bofur said, grabbing her sleeve. She pulled away angrily from his grasp.

Thorin blocked her path.

"Let me by," Averil said through clenched teeth. "Let me avenge my father and my kingdom!"

"You're going to murder the man in broad daylight?" Thorin asked. "Are you mad?"

"Let me by, Thorin."

Maeve got up from her table and stood next to him.

"I'm afraid I'm with the grumpy one, miss. You mustn't leave like this," she said.

"What would you have me do, then?" Averil yelled in frustration. "Turn myself over to him?'

Simultaneously, Thorin said "no" and Maeve said "yes."

All curious eyes were on Maeve.

"Let's look at the situation," she said thoughtfully. "We don't even know if this is the same person who did those horrible things."

Bofur nodded in approval. Averil's nose flared.

"And if it is?" Thorin asked.

"Well, let's see. You've got a well-armed company, a warrior maid among them, no less -" she pointed at Averil - "_and _you say a wizard is on his way? Grumpy one, I think you can more than handle these young men. That is, _after_ you find out who they are and what they want," Maeve said. "And _after _you take this matter away from my peaceful village."

Thorin shook his head disapprovingly at her suggestion and looked at Averil. "Collect your things. We'll get you past them."

"Maeve is right," Averil said quietly.

"_What?" _Thorin's eyes grew wide and fierce.

Averil turned to Bofur and instructed him to lure the men to the camp, under the ruse that there was information they wanted to shared about her. She and Thorin would follow shortly.

Bofur pushed past Thorin, ignoring his angry glance.

"What exactly is this going to accomplish?" Thorin asked her.

Averil's eyes were distant as she spoke. "I once trusted Hevyk with my father's life. I trusted him to protect my people, and my own life. He was there for me when my mother died. He was once a kind man."

Her voice trailed off, the horror of those days washing over her anew. She tightened her jaw, then her fists, gripping the knife with all her might. She replaced the searing in her heart with boldness as she stepped closer to Thorin.

She needed to tell him. She realized that he might not return her affection, but her honesty would finally be lifted from her shoulders. If things went wrong with Hevyk - if he were somehow able to defeat her – Thorin had to know what was in her heart.

"I need him to tell me what changed in him. I need to look in his eyes before I kill him. And then," she said, lifting her free hand to stroke his beard, "I am going with you, Thorin Oakenshield, and I'm going to stay with you."

A rush shook Thorin's body to the core. Despite all she had endured, despite all there still was to endure, despite his often gruff way with her, she was willing to be by his side, to fight alongside him...to love him.

Thorin could no longer keep his control. He grabbed the back of her head and brought her face to his, overtaking her with a long, victorious kiss. She wrapped her arms around him, the blade falling to the floor. She lingered in the kiss, drowning in it, oblivious to Maeve's approving smile.

"I also perform weddings," the innkeeper whispered.


	6. Redemption

"We must go," Thorin whispered into Averil's mouth between kisses. He hated to break from her, to not feel his lips against hers, her body pressed against his. But time weighed down on him at every turn. Now, it also weighed on her.

Averil nodded, playfully brushed her nose against his and kissing him again lightly before picking up the knife and handing it to him for safekeeping. She nearly staggered into the guest room to get her things, thoughts of being Thorin's lover - not just in a dream - dancing drunkenly in her head.

Maeve had dashed into her kitchen and ladled some of her simmering stew into a small metal pot with a tight-fitting lid and rolled the last of the thick, pasty salve into a ball, covering it in leftover rags. She came back into the front room and handed the gifts to Thorin and Averil.

The two women hugged. Averil sorely missed having such motherly love. She thanked Maeve and planted a kiss on Percival's cheek, wishing him well.

Thorin was still reeling from the sensation of Averil's wet lips on his, and her declaration to remain with him, but he forced his rigid demeanor to resurface as he gave an appreciative nod to Maeve and Percival.

"For heaven's sake, grumpy one, come here!" Maeve said, wrapping her great arms around Thorin's neck in a warm embrace.

He then took one last peek into the square. The men's horses were gone. Bofur had led them off to the camp.

Averil and Thorin walked into the sweet, cool late afternoon air and carefully secured everything to the pony, mounted it and trotted off.

All of Averil's senses were heightened, including touch. Riding behind Thorin through the square and up the long, winding, narrow trail into the adjacent woods, she felt every brush and bump against his body. She gently moved his hair to the side, kissed the back of his neck, and took in the earthy fragrance of his raven and silver locks.

"You cannot wait, Princess?" Thorin teased her.

"I can," Averil said. "But I wish I didn't have to."

He left it at that. To indulge in more playful talk would fuel his desire, and he was already so stimulated that he could have taken her right there on the pony. So they continued their ride in silence.

Averil could soon make out the circle of dwarves, Bilbo, two average-sized men and one very tall one with a pointy hat – Gandalf – sitting and talking around a low fire.

As they moved closer, and she became one hundred percent sure that it was indeed Hevyk and one of his officers, one of the newer soldiers in the Fairlea army. Averil assessed the situation, just as she had before the Orc fight.

Hevyk: six feet, one inch….sword in scabbard on left hip…small knife tucked in right boot. Left hand wrapped…. small amount of blood seeping through.

Accompanying officer: roughly five feet, ten inches….a bowman…six arrows in his quiver. _He's used some_, Averil thought. No other obvious weaponry…deep, jagged cut healing across his right jawline. _They fought Orcs, too. _

Averil stealthily reached underneath Thorin's pelt and retrieved her blade. 

_Hold nothing back._

The pony neighed, and everyone in the camp looked up. Hevyk practically leaped from the stump he was perched on, his face bright as he saw Averil approach. Bofur, who was next to him, extended his arm in front of his Hevyk's chest, a warning not to go any further. Hevyk looked at him strangely. Bofur just shook his head.

Averil jumped off the pony first.

"_Ele-rahv_!" Hevyk's smile was so luminous he didn't see the madness in her eyes, the steel in her hand. Thorin was the only one to immediately pick up on the smolder in his eye.

The officer reached for his arrows, but Thorin, Dwalin, Bofur and Gloin overtook him, wrestling him to the ground. Gandalf stood up from his own stump and looked on in disbelief, about to object, when Averil's next move silenced him.

Hevyk affectionately calling her by the nickname her father had given her sent Averil over the edge. With her good foot, she swept Hevyk's left knee, then pinned him to the ground, bolting her left fist to his chest. She bent down and held the knife to his throat.

"What is the meaning of this!" Gandalf roared.

Obviously Gandalf had just arrived, with no time to be brought up to speed by Bofur. Averil had not spent much time with him on the quest – he would disappear for long stretches - and she knew he had disapproved of putting another life in harm's way on the journey, but she respected him.

At this moment, though, he was just an unnecessary voice. She ignored him.

"Make no mistake," Averil hissed in Hevyk's face, "by my hand, and mine alone, you will not leave these woods alive. But you will confess your sins before you die."

Hevyk's mouth and eyes were frozen open in shock.

Averil backed away and stood up straight, ordering Hevyk to do the same. He arose slowly, still dazed.

"Tell me, Hevyk, and tell these good fellows, why you murdered your king."

"_Ele_…I mean, Princess Averil, I've – I've done no such thing," Hevyk stuttered.

"Liar!" Averil shouted, lifting the blade and pointing it at his right eye.

"My lady, please…." Gandalf began.

"I beg you stay out of this, dear wizard," Averil said, her eyes never leaving Hevyk.

"Princess Averil, I am telling the truth. I swear on my honor."

Averil kept the knife aimed at his eye.

"Princess, I loved King Daimereth. He took me under his wing like a son."

"I know. Which makes what you did all the more sickening."

"No, Princess. I tried to save him!" Hevyk said desperately.

A heavy silence fell over the camp. Even the crackle from the fire died down as Averil attempted to make sense of Hevyk's claim.

"Explain," she said.

Hevyk breathed deep, straightened his jacket, and cleared his throat, preparing to make the most important speech of his life.

He recalled what she already knew: it was her birthday. King Daimereth's closest advisor, Branon, was in charge of preparing the celebration festivities because the king had become so incoherent. But it was all a ruse, a distraction to take the palace guards by surprise.

"Unbeknownst to me, Princess, Branon bribed several of my soldiers, promising them untold riches and glory, if they would assist him in the coup. I only found this out the day it happened, as it happened, from an officer who couldn't go through with it. If I had found out sooner, I promise…."

"That's not possible," Averil blurted, her face getting hot. "Branon had been by my father's side for years. He tried to talk sense back to him. I witnessed it myself."

"Princess," Hevyk said, taking a slight step forward, "you witnessed a greedy man pretending to care about Daimereth. He had planned this for a long time. The Queen's death was no accident, my lady. He knew your father could not survive her passing - not physically, not mentally. Your father's mind was going, but he was living longer than Branon had counted on. That's when he decided to hasten things along. And the more plans he devised, the more devious he became."

Averil fought back tears. She continued to point the knife at him, but was ever-so-slowly lowering it.

"I saw you run into my father's chamber with your sword," she nodded toward the sheath on his hip. "After you went in – _after you went in_, Hevyk - I heard Branon scream that my father was dead." Remembering the confusion of that day made her dizzy.

"My lady, he was telling _me_ that as I came to your father's side," Hevyk said. "I saw Branon cut the king's throat. I drew my sword to kill Branon, and I did. But I was too late to save your father. I was too blind to save your mother from the poisons he fed her. I am sorry, Princess Averil. I failed you. But I hope to redeem myself now."

Suddenly, Averil dropped her knife and fell to her knees and wept, quaking her body. Thorin came to her before Bofur and Bilbo had a chance, but he did not pat her back or stroke her hair as one of her friends might have; he still wasn't adept at tenderness. He did make sure his body was right next to hers, so she would know he was there. He picked up her knife and looked up at Hevyk.

"This account…this is all true?" Thorin asked.

Hevyk nodded vigorously. "I came looking for Averil as soon as I realized she was gone. I thought one of Branon's henchman had kidnapped her….or worse. I looked everywhere in Fairlea and neighboring villages before my hounds picked up her scent. But then they took off, spooked by an Orc attack a few days ago." He rubbed his bandaged hand.

Hevyk's eyes softened as he beheld his sobbing princess. "She is the heir to the Fairlea throne. She needs to return."

Thorin rubbed the handle of the knife in his hand as he listened to Averil's low moans.

Two statements circled in his head, the only place in the universe where they could co-exist.

_She needs to return._

_Thorin Oakenshield, I'm going to stay with you._


	7. A Gift for the King

_**A/N - Final chapter. Thank you for reading./RB**_

As quickly as she had begun, Averil ordered herself to stop crying. She arose and lifted her face, forcing a smile.

Now it was her turn to make a speech.

"Pardon my tears, gentlemen," she said, wiping her face. "But how could I not be overcome? My father has been avenged! And I am alive, thanks to every single one of you." She stole a look at Thorin.

"There are still good men in my kingdom," she continued, reaching for Hevyk's hand and lifting it triumphantly. "Good men who fight for what was right. A celebration is in order!"

The company erupted in cheers. She motioned for Hevyk to come toward her, and she held him close in a restorative embrace. He lifted her off the ground and spun her around, overjoyed. He introduced her his officer, Enam, who complimented her on her ambush.

"We certainly could have used you a few days ago," Enam said, running a finger along his injured jawline.

Thorin looked on, trying to seem nonchalant.

Merriment broke out at the camp. Averil added Maeve's stew to the existing offerings of bread and pheasant. Tales were shared, weapons examined, and songs sung.

Satisfied that they could slip away without being noticed, Averil pulled on Thorin's sleeve, and quickly led him past the ponies and horses, away from the noise.

He stood before her as she leaned against a tall pine.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I will be."

"That was quite a lot to take in."

She nodded, and rested her head on his shoulder. Exhaustion settled in every part of her body.

"Let's go back to the inn," she whispered into his neck. "Hold me in that bed until I fall asleep."

Thorin allowed himself to enjoy her warmth and the tickle of her lips before he spoke. He took a step away from her, so he wasn't so close.

"You should eat, and then rest at camp," he said, handing over the knife she'd dropped in despair earlier. "You have a long journey to embark on tomorrow."

"Don't you mean _we _have a long journey?"

Thorin shook his head.

"Princess, this is where we part."

"I told you, I'm going with you."

"You will abandon your people? After everything you now know?"

Averil hung her head. To hear the truth today was to get knocked in the gut, repeatedly.

Thorin placed his hand under her chin and lifted her face. He decided to try the tenderness that Maeve had suggested. Perhaps that would make things easier for both of them.

"Do you not love your home?" he asked softly.

Averil didn't respond, but he could see the answer in her glossy eyes.

"Could you love that man?" Thorin nodded toward the camp.

Averil wrinkled her brow and curled her upper lip. "Hevyk?" For reasons she did not understand, she stopped short of answering "no."

Instead, she said, "I'm in love with a dwarf king," and leaned forward to kiss him.

He pulled back before she could make contact.

"It's obvious that he fancies you," Thorin said, trying to get through to her. "And he is honorable. He was determined to find you."

"So were you," she said, remembering his return to the forest and snatching the tent away just in time.

"He would make a fine, respectable husband."

"As will you."

Thorin sighed. This woman was by far the most stubborn, one-track-minded person he had ever encountered, besides himself. This was harder than Thorin expected.

_Curse Maeve, and her 'tenderness,' _he thought.

"I cannot allow you to come with us," he said coldly, his voice monotone. "We have our destinies, Averil. They're both clear. I have appreciated your skills in battle. But…."

Averil suddenly reached for his belt buckle and pulled him to her, roughly knocking his body against hers. She knew what he was trying to do, and she needed to show him that it wasn't working. She took his hand and placed it down her dress, over her heart. He looked at his hand and her breast bulging next to one another against the fabric, and, despite himself, began to softly stroke her flesh. He felt her heartbeat and her breath quicken.

Thorin pulled his hand from the dress and swept her away from the tree and into his arms. He pelted her mouth and face and neck with hard, fervent kisses.

They spoke on their own.

_Listen to me. My eye must be on reclaiming Erebor, not on you. I have a responsibility to carry out. Do you understand that? You must also follow your destiny. Rule your people; comfort them after these travesties. My heart must remain on my own task. You cannot come, or my heart will be with you._

At last, he was spent. Out of breath, his huffs were hot and shallow against her chest. Averil slowly ran her fingers through his hair and let a single tear fall.

She'd heard every word.

She was the first to reappear at the lively camp, looking for Bofur and Bilbo. Thorin emerged from the woods just as the three ended an embrace, all of them teary-eyed. He walked past them stoically and joined the circle around the fire. He ate and drank, but barely engaged in conversation with anyone.

Hevyk stayed by Averil's side, his protective arm around her, bringing her up to speed with the happenings in the kingdom. The royal treasurer and the remaining trusted soldiers were keeping the peace. But everyone was holding out hope that the true heir would soon return.

Thorin looked away, unable to deal with the scenes that appeared in his head whenever he saw Hevyk's hand around her shoulder or her waist.

As the night wore on, Averil began to hold her head wearily in her hands. Hevyk offered to pitch her tent, and she let him. She crawled inside and let her heavy heart carry her off to sleep.

Thorin and his company were gone by the time Averil awoke. Thorin had roused everyone before daybreak, offering no explanation except that Durin's Day was fast approaching and they'd already had far too many distractions and setbacks.

Bofur and Bilbo glanced longingly at Averil's tent as they prepared for the journey, but they took off without saying goodbye. Thorin never looked back once.

The sun was high in the sky when Averil came out of her tent. She'd slept late, and deeply.

She looked around the empty camp, and swallowed back the anguish that brewed in her throat. Hevyk and Enam were eating bread around the fire pit. They had already gathered their supplies and loaded them on the horses.

"Good day, _Ele-rahv_!" Hevyk said enthusiastically, handing her a large piece of bread. "Are you ready to return home?"

Averil reached for the food and sat next to him on a stump.

"I do believe I am," she said.

As she ate, Averil remembered her dream:

_There were four small children in her palace, four raven-haired, happy children. They were hers, two princes and two princesses, stair steps in age. They were running, laughing. They called for their father to join them in a game of hide-and-seek, and Hevyk emerged from the palace library, beaming with pride and eager to play with them._

_And as she stood in the long hall watching her family, she could see her mother, father and Thorin near the palace entrance, surrounded in multi-colored light pouring from the stained glass windows above them. Thorin was adorned in ornate royal blue kingly robes. Her mother's deep purple velvet gown was embellished with tiny diamonds and kissed the floor. Her father was smiling at her the way he used to when she finished a good sparring practice, proud and tall in his black, fur-lined garb. No one could see them but her. She waved at them, but they did not move. She called for them, but they did not answer._

_When the light faded, so did they._

Around mid-afternoon, the company finally stopped to eat and stock up on supplies in a town much bigger than the last. The tantalizing smells from an eatery and pub beckoned them. They sat at a large wooden table, worn out from the day's early start and non-stop travel.

They ordered ale, meat and potatoes. Then all were silent, thinking of the one missing.

Bofur spoke up first.

"She fought well, didn't she?" he asked no one in particular.

That was all it took for the somber company to come alive. They exploded with loud commentary about her skills, re-telling for Gandalf the details of Averil's prowess during the bloody Orc battle.

"My goodness, I nearly forgot," Bofur said, as the noise died down. He reached inside his coat. "She wanted me to give you this."

Bofur slid her knife across the table to Thorin.

He stared at it for several seconds as he felt his chest tighten. He reached out to stroke the tip of the blade, drawing a small drop of blood.

"She will need this," Thorin murmured.

"She said it is a gift," Bilbo began, looking away, his voice breaking. "Actually, she said, it is her gift for her king."

_Her king._ Thorin turned the knife to look at his reflection. He saw Averil. Her brown eyes sparkled like smoky topaz, a soft smile formed on her lips. Her hair, dark as midnight, was wispy against her olive skin.

At that moment, the ale arrived. After everyone was served, Bofur raised his mug high.

"To Averil!" Bofur said.

"To Averil!" the company cheered.

Thorin did not say the toast. But he lifted his mug with the others, then brought it to his lips.

The ale was bitter, and perfect.


End file.
